


Cold Kingdom ~ by Fairfax

by AngelBookofDaysModerator



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Angel Book of Days Challenge, Gen, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-08-03
Updated: 2003-08-03
Packaged: 2017-10-31 11:12:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/343427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelBookofDaysModerator/pseuds/AngelBookofDaysModerator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written by Fairfax. Posted on the author's behalf by the Angel Book of Days Moderator.</p><p>Timeline ~ S5, ambiguously</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Kingdom ~ by Fairfax

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vylit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vylit/gifts).



The hardest fact of life is that the world is cold, gray, and indifferent. Standing on the raised edge of the rooftop, balanced on the balls of his feet, Connor embraces that fact, turning it over and over in his mind. He could taste it in his mouth like blood and dust, rolling it on his tongue.

He pitches forward and back like a metronome as the wind buffets him. It pushes against his back, and he tips forward slightly, toward the edge and the concrete six stories below. Capriciously, the sharp wind tugs at his hair as it shifts again. Boneless and yielding, his head tilts back a small degree and the faint stars shining on the cityscape fill his eyes as he sways back toward the rooftop. Forward, backward. Up, down. 

Connor is sick with choices. One life, new life, old life, no life. Dr. Seuss for the Modern Californian. Not like the stories he (never) read the girl who was (never) his little sister. It is all so hopeless. One horrible, wonderful lie after another, and Connor caught between them like a salmon frozen in an ice flow. His body obeys the demands of wind and gravity as starlight and streetlights alternately fill his vision and vie for his divided attention. 

If he thought anyone would listen, Connor could tell the world what he wants. 

He wants to go home. He wants to see his father, any of them. He wants to be held by his mother, either of them. He wants to be back in that drafty storehouse filled with beautiful creatures he didn't get to kill. And with Cordy-back when he thinks she really was Cordy, and not that thing, the other. He wants to be back in his bedroom; all blue and brown, with trophies on the shelves and college acceptance letters on his desk, messing around with Tracy on the bed while keeping one ear cocked for his parents' return. Connor wants to feel his sisters hug him. He wants to stop feeling his daughter's blood on his hands and the crunch of her skull.

His rocking becomes more pronounced as he absorbs the sounds of the city below him. Nighttime in Los Angeles-wind and sirens, screams and silence. Connor spreads his arms and closes his eyes, feeling as though he could slip off the edge and fall into truth, as though coming to a profound conclusion that forces you to sit upright out of a sound sleep. He pitches forward pass the point of safety as a strong hand-Wesley's-grabs him by the belt and pulls back sharply.

Suddenly stiff-limbed and flailing, Connor falls to the rooftop. No more streetlight and concrete, his eyes are filled with stars, muted by the polluted city below. And Wesley's dark shape, next to him and around him. Half dragged onto his lap, Wesley's hands in his hair and cupping his jaw, he hears Wesley's voice as though from far away, murmuring meaningless words against his ear. 

"No! I-Good Lord, Connor! Why would you do that?"

Disinterested, Connor leans against Wesley, sobbing dryly. Wesley pulls back and tilts Connor's face toward him, looking for tears, Connor thinks. Connor knows his eyes are dry, however. He feels them: cold and frozen, rolling and clicking in their sockets like marbles.

Making a low, rough sound, Wesley pulls Connor close to him again, rubbing his back. "I'm sorry," he whispers in the younger man's ear. He rocks them back and forth on the filthy blacktopped roof. "I'm sorry. I had to do this, for all our sakes. And I thought you'd be happier knowing the truth."

He presses his lips against Connor's temple and holds him tighter. "I didn't know it would hurt you this much."

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Connor's voice was hoarse from screaming. Ankles tied together and wrists cuffed behind him, he thrashed uselessly against the exercise mat on the chilly basement floor. No one came, and he was no closer to freedom than before.

He panted harshly and craned his neck, looking around again. Barren basement with the furnace and all the usual pipes. A washing machine and dryer. Dusty cement floor, half covered by the mat. Terrifyingly, a steel cage in one corner, big enough for a man to pace around in. Wooden stairs leading up toward a door Connor couldn't see. Most disturbing were all the strange symbols painted on the floor, the walls, and going up the stairs. They reminded Connor of the runes Tracy had shown him once. Some New Age things her sister had bought at the mall. Connor had made some smartass remark about people being stupid enough to pay for meaningless symbols painted on rocks, and Tracy had been pissed at him for being small-minded. 

Now that Connor had been kidnapped by a madman who believed in these things, he wished he had paid more attention when he had the chance. 

The lock clicked at the top of the stairs. Connor felt his heart try to beat its way out of his chest, as he listened to his abductor's footsteps on the stairs. It was terrible, Connor had decided, that he looked so normal. Dark hair, light eyes and skin, mild English accent. Except for the livid scar at his throat, and the slight raspiness to his voice, he seemed so very benign, Connor hadn't been at all concerned when he first approached him, introducing himself and asking for directions. Days later, helpless and bound at Wesley's feet, Connor had formed a very different opinion of him.

Wesley knelt next to him. "Don't--!" Connor croaked, and tried to roll away from him.

"Take it easy," Wesley stopped him easily with a hand on his shoulder. Carefully cupping the back of Connor's neck, he pulled him half upright. "Drink," he said, holding a cup of water to his lips. Helplessly grateful, Connor gulped the water, feeling it soothe his raw throat. 

When he was finished, Wesley eased him back onto the mat. "Are you ready to listen, now?" he asked quietly in a voice designed to pacify him.

Connor tensed. "Look, man, just let me go. I-I won't tell anyone. I just wanna get out of here."

With a sigh, the Englishman sat back. "We've been over this before. I know this is difficult for you, but things are not what they seem. You-"

"Don't tell me things aren't what they seem! I'm not who you think I am," Suddenly furious, Connor bucked against the mat. "My name is Connor Ingram. I have a roommate, friends at school, _and parents_ who will be looking for me." He thrashed uselessly, feeling the cuffs cut into his wrists. "If you think you'll get away with this, you're crazier than I thought," he snarled. "I mean it. You're in some serious shit here, man. You _kidnapped_ me."

"Well, it's not the first time." Wesley smiled a thin, unpleasant smile and jerked him into a sitting position. Connor hissed at the pressure on his arms and wobbled slightly as he tried to stay balanced. He glared narrow-eyed at Wesley and pulled his knees up to his chest.

"Listen very closely, Connor, for I am tired of repeating myself." Wesley climbed to his feet and looked down at Connor coldly. "'Connor Ingram' does not exist. He is the fabrication of powerful and dangerous dark magic. You are Connor Angel. Your father-Angel-made a devil's bargain to give you a new life and royally fuck with the minds of everyone who has ever known you…"

Connor refused to listen anymore. He didn't want to hear these ramblings again-souled vampires, mystical pregnancies, comatose seers, evil law firms and altered realities. Monsters and magic. It's all such Lucasfilm bullshit.

"-and now that Angel has disappeared, we discover we can't even leave to look for him. We're bound to that firm and Los Angeles by the deal Angel made." Wesley paused for a calming breath. "The only way to be free is to undo what Angel and the senior partners did. These lies" his voice gentled, "they're not fair to anyone. Not us, and certainly not you."

After a moment's pause, and still gazing fixedly past Wesley's waistline, Connor said, "One question."

Warily, Wes nodded. "Yes?"

"Say I believe you. Say I accept all this phony memory, fake family, evil power, you're-not-who-you-think-you-are crap. Why do you know who I am?"

"Ah, yes. Well-" Wesley perked up considerably. "You see, all memories and references to you were removed from my mind and stored in a mystical receptacle-a sort of jar-at the firm. I stumbled upon the jar, broke it, and my memories were returned."

Connor met his eyes, dumbfounded. "A jar," he repeated flatly.

Slightly defensive, Wesley clarified, "Well, a magic jar."

"Oh, a _magic_ jar," sneered Connor, lips twisting. "Riiight."

With both feet, he lashed out and caught Wesley just below the kneecap with a satisfying crack. Wesley fell to the mat with a groan of pain as Connor kicked at him wildly with bound legs and squirmed to put some distance between them. All too soon, however, and with embarrassing ease, Wesley clawed his way up Connor's body and pinned him face-first to the mat.

"You know," he ground out, panting harshly, "in your other life-the real life, the one that wasn't a pointless lie-you're one of the strongest people I know. I doubt handcuffs and rope could restrain you. And now look how easy it is to take you down." Connor swallowed hard and pressed his forehead against the mat. "Does that seem right, Connor? Isn't it wrong that that was taken away from you?"

Connor squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to think about how often he was disappointed with his body. How he should have been able to run farther and faster, jump higher. He felt confused by his own body's layout, and he had somehow misplaced his strength.

Abruptly, Wesley rolled him onto his back and lifted his sweater and looked at his abdomen. Terrified at the other man's hand on his bare skin, Connor's eyes opened wide and he curled his legs toward his chest.

"S-S-Stop," he stammered, shaking his head.

The older man looked him in the eye for a moment before turning his attention to Connor's leg, pulling up his jeans and examining Connor's calf. "I'm not hurting you, Connor. Just relax." Wesley tugged Connor's clothes back into place. "Not a scar or blemish that I can see. You're in sports, aren't you? How do you manage that?" 

Baffled, Connor lifted his head from the mat and just stared at him.

"Tell me. Do you even get ill? Ever?"

Exhausted, Connor dropped his head again. "Of course, I do. I get what you're saying, and I'm not some super freak with super freak strength. I get colds, food poisoning, just like everybody else. I had my tonsils out when I was ten, the whole works."

"When you were ten," Wesley responded firmly, "you were struggling to survive in a demon dimension called Quor-toth."

Connor felt as though the temperature had dropped by a dozen degrees. His lips worked soundlessly. Quor-toth. What an ugly, familiar word.

Wesley sighed again and rubbed Connor's sweater in small pitying circles. "You're still in there, Connor. Just under the skin."

Connor listened without comment, as Wesley's other hand touched his own throat and rubbed its scar fitfully.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------

The chill of the rooftop penetrates Connor everyplace he is not touching Wesley. He shivers slightly and burrows closer. Turning his head to bury his face in Wesley's throat, he feels his skin pull in an unexpected way. Wesley's scar is an inch from his eyes, and he knows what it means.

Connor moves like an old man, every joint creakily articulate and filled with ground glass. Silently, he guides Wesley's hand to his throat. He feels for the first time as Wesley traces a scar that travels from Connor's jugular halfway around to the other side. 

"Oh, Connor."

When Wesley murmurs sadly, Connor shifts his head to the older man's shoulder. Wesley looks exhausted and ancient.

"You're right, you know," Connor said idly. "I never scarred before. Not even in Quor-toth. What caused this?" He lifts a hand to scratch at it.

Catching Connor's fingers and drawing them to his chest, Wesley slowly responds, "I believe your father could only pay for your new life with the blood of your old life. That you had to die to be reborn." He began slowly rocking them from side to side.

"A life for a life."

"Yes."

Silent, Connor lets himself be rocked. Peering through his eyelashes at Wesley's ravaged face, the ambient light seems to break over them like a thousand shards of ice. 

"Do you remember?" Wesley asks him cautiously.

"Yeah. It's all coming back." Connor suppresses memories of fathers and mothers and doomed pregnancies, and stretches out with his senses. He smells the city, senses the presence of a demon--blocks gone and moving away from them. He is possessed by his skin again, each cell flooded with strength. Wesley can hold him simply because Connor allows it. As if he knows this, Wesley's arms tighten around him.

"For me, as well," He says suddenly. "I mean-I knew what happened. I remembered it all: you, Jasmine, Cordelia…things I did. But now I _feel_ it all so much more keenly. It feels real."

Eyes shut, Connor focuses on his heartbeat. He had forgotten it. "Yeah, I feel it, too."

"I suppose that means the spell is well and truly broken."

Connor grits his teeth against a sob. When he can take a deep breath, he rasps, "Yes. The illusion's ended. The curtain falls. The drama's over whether we're ready or not."

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Connor's hands knew what to do. 

In the basement, he trained--punching bags and attacking dummy vampires with stakes and wooden swords. His hands knew just how to act, holding these implements with an ease and perfection of form that Connor was helpless to explain. It worried him. 

Connor felt a strange affection for his feet, which remained clueless. Connor stumbled around on leaden feet as graceless as an elephant. This pleased him even as it frustrated Wesley. What good was a perfectly held sword if clumsy feet sent you stumbling headlong into the dummy? Connor's feet were anchored on the floor. He would not be swept up in this lunatic world. He would not leave his life behind.

Wesley always watched. As Connor shambled through his routine, he would call out instructions or encouragement, his voiced tinged with frustration. They did this over and over, all day long. Connor would train until he remembered, and Connor was afraid of what Wesley would do if he never did. It was easier to not think, and let his hands and feet decide. 

Psychology was not Connor's favorite class, but he remembered a thing or two about Stockholm Syndrome. This must be what was happening to him now. It served as an explanation for his calmness, for the fact that he would talk with Wes about Cordelia Chase and Daniel Holtz as if they were people he actually knew. He was scared of his own weakness.

Wesley would let him retreat at those times-as much as he could retreat in a locked basement protected from detection by magical glyphs on the walls. Connor would pace and shake his head to clear it, not listening as Wesley followed him with his eyes and murmured, "It's okay, Connor. It's what's supposed to happen. Just let it." 

The core of Connor's personality was being chiseled away, and he was helpless to stop it. His head ached all the time, sometimes to the point where he would lie on the mat for hours with his eyes shut while Wesley swabbed his brow with a cool cloth. He would childishly demand Chocodiles and applesauce, and while Wesley went to buy them he would rock on his haunches, chewing on his fingers and wrestling with his mind. His dreams were unbearable, reeking things filled with bizarre and impossible images. Wesley would wrap an arm around him and pull him close when he woke up howling. 

He made another mistake and lunged too far to the left, missing the practice dummy with his sword by a good six inches.

"You must try harder, Connor," Wesley's voice rang out behind him. "Concentrate."

Detached, not bothering to look back at him, Connor replied, "I'm doing the best I can."

Some dim awareness flared, the same sense that told him when a practice dummy had been dropped from the ceiling behind him. But it was too late to turn around, and he gasped and stumbled forward when a sharp pain struck him flat across the back. Skin stinging under his sweatshirt, he whirled and gaped at Wesley, red-faced and holding a practice sword. 

"That is not your best," he hissed. "You are the Destroyer, by God. You know how to fight." He raised his sword aggressively. "Now, remember who you are, and defend yourself!"

"Why would I want to remember?" Connor staggered back, barely parrying Wesley's strike. "I like my life. I want it back."

"Because it's not who you are. It's a lie." Wesley stabbed forward, and Connor barely shifted in time to have the sword pass harmlessly between his left arm and his body. Connor struck hard on a downward stroke, knocking Wesley's blade down and to the right. Wesley brought it back up with a vicious sweep that had Connor dancing backwards in a rush, sword up to protect his chest. 

"You would accept a peaceful boring lie over the life you were actually born to live? You want to pretend magic and monsters and higher beings don't exist? You would pretend to be something you're not?" Wesley's sword whistled as he landed one overhead blow after another on Connor's defensively raised weapon. "Good God, you're like Charles Manson hiding behind a cardboard cutout of the Beaver."

Connor didn't like this. His feet-so cold on the basement floor, a coldness that starts at the bottom and works its way up through bone and vein-his feet were waking up. Agilely, he spun, jumped and dodged his way across the mat, avoiding Wesley's attacks and launching his own. He is better than Wes, he knows it. His body was in complete agreement. An opportunity seen and taken, and then Wesley was staggering back defensively. Connor was moving fluidly. Mercury in motion, washing his life away in a poison flood. 

Sick, Connor dropped his sword even as Wesley's arm struck. Displaced air ruffled Connor's hair as Wesley's sword stopped inches from his face. 

"I have to go. Let me go home," he begged desperately, gulping for breath. 

Sympathy was in Wesley's eyes, but his face remained hard. "That is not your home. It's just an illusion."

An icy stab of hatred, so cold it burned his heart, cut through Connor. It shone in his eyes like needles, and Wesley was ready for him. When Connor broke past him heading for the stairs, he brought the butt of the wooden sword down hard on the back of the young man's head. 

Connor fell to the floor and into blackness.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Connor head is against his shoulder, his eyes fixed and dead. Dead like bare branches on a burnt out tree.

Suddenly fearful, Wesley jostles Connor slightly. "Connor?"

Connor blinks and shifts slightly, dragging his feet against the rooftop. He considers Wesley for a moment. "We feel different now that the spell is broken. Does everyone?" Wesley arches an eyebrow at him in confusion. "I mean, is it broken for everyone?"

Slowly, Wesley says, "I believe so."

"Hmm." Connor thinks for a moment. "If I go home…if I go back to that house, will they know me? Welcome me? Blame me?" He tips his head back and looks at Wesley seriously. "What would you do?"

Wesley doesn't know what to say, so he just holds on.

"Fred and Gunn," Connor continues emotionlessly. "They remember me, I guess. They must be thrilled. Think they'd welcome me back? Do they realize Angel raped us all?"

They are silent for a moment, shivering in the chill of the air.

"Consider Cordelia," Connor says, and then says nothing else for the longest time.

"Yes?" Wesley asks rustily. "What about her?"

"She really would have been better off if I'd never been born. How stupid was I, to not realize what she was turning into? Look at her now. Poor princess in a tower." Connor's voice drops to a rough whisper. "I could wake her with a kiss, but I'm afraid of how she'd look at me."

Helpless, Wesley sways from side to side with Connor's limp body. "I'm sorry," he whispers against the nape of his neck. "I did what I thought was best…I suppose I should have just let Angel rot…I thought you deserved more than a lie."

"It's all been lies, Wes. Since before I was born." Connor draws a shuddering breath. "Angel didn't do such a bad thing, really. Took one lie and replaced it with another. Not so bad." Connor's eyes glisten in the dark. "For a few months, I wasn't afraid." He laughs bitterly. "Of course, now I'm choking on it." Wesley tightens his arms around him.

"So we've all come 'round again, right? Full circle." Connor lets his head fall back onto Wesley's shoulder. "Time reverses and devours itself. It's okay. In a hundred years, we'll all be dead, and the stars will still be shining." He curls into Wesley's scar, lips and nose pressed against it.

"What's worse?" he whispers. "A lie you love or a lie you hate?"

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Connor was slammed headfirst into the Dumpster and dropped his stake. 

Weaponless, he dragged himself to his feet and knocked the vampire's hands away from his head. Arms over the rim of the trash bin, he kicked out with both feet and sent the demon hurtling toward the opposite end of the alley. 

Connor should have known, really, that it was too good to be true. Wesley took him out of the basement and drove him here. When he pulled over at the mouth of the alley and told Connor there was a cab on the other side to take him home, he should have taken off down the street. But he threw open the door and darted into the alley before he had a chance to think. When the vampire stepped out from behind the edge of the Dumpster, it was more of a surprise than it should have been.

The vampire was hideous, but not unfamiliar. Yellow eyes, ridged brow, fetid breath like spoiled meat in a fanged mouth. Connor was calm-very calm-and filled with hate. 

Instinct would not let Connor even slow down. The stake was pulled out of his waistband and in his hand without consciously thinking about it. They met in the alley in a fury of punches and kicks. Connor controlled the fight effortlessly until a lucky punch snuck under his defenses and struck him hard in the face, filling his mouth with blood from his lips and nose. 

Connor staggered back and the vampire pressed his advantage. And Connor was fine. Holtz had taught him, and then Angel had taught him better. Let the vampire grab him and throw him against the Dumpster. Put some distance between you. See the confidence on the monster's face as it moves in for the kill, as confident as Cordelia had been. Kick it across the alley, as shock crosses its features. And wouldn't that nice couple that was (never) his parents be shocked if they could see him now? How easy to grab the stake off the ground and hurl it into the vampire's heart. As easy as punching a hole through your daughter's head and taking her out of the world forever.

Dust settled, and none of this was unfamiliar.

Connor dropped the stake and looked at his hands. This is all there would ever be from now on. Long nights, short days, and never enough sunshine, not ever again. He tasted blood from his injuries.

Wesley appeared at the end of the alley, stake in hand. Whatever misery he read on Connor's features brought him to a halt.

Connor bared his bloodstained teeth in a vicious smile and scaled the side of the building--hurtling toward the roof, leaving Wesley's voice behind him.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Connor moves weakly out of Wes's arms and slumps on the roof. 

"So you'll go now, right?"

"Go?" Wesley asked.

"Yeah, go. Go find your once and future king. Get Fred, Gunn, and Lorne and start helping the helpless again. Go. And I'll go elsewhere."

Wesley looked at him, considering. "'Once and future king'? You don't sound like Connor Angel," he says, smiling slightly.

Connor sighs deeply. "Well, I did go to college, you know."

Wesley rose to his feet. "And you're thinking, what? That you'll just fade away somewhere? Live another lie." He shakes his head gently. "You should be with the people who really know you. Besides, don't you want to be there when we find Angel? If only so you can kick his arse?"

Connor laughs at that, a sudden sound startled out of him.

Wesley moves closer. "This is the start of your third life, Connor. And you've never been a coward yet. I really must insist you come with me."

Connor cocks his head and looks up at Wesley. "Gonna kidnap me again?"

"Only if you force me," he smiles. Leaning down, he rests his hand on Connor's shoulder and feels the young man sag against him.

"All right," Connor pauses. "But only so I can kick Angel's ass."

"Agreed," Wesley helps him to his feet and toward the stairwell. 

Starlight shines in Connor's eyes, and he feels the hum of the city and the pressure of Wesley's hand on his back. Somewhere, a princess sleeps and enchanted sleep, and a vanished king waits to be rescued-and then brutally assaulted by the lost prince. All stories, all wheels within wheels of fortune turning. And in a hundred years, they would all be dead, and the stars would still be shining. Connor found some measure of comfort in that. 

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Vylit in the Angel Book of Days Winter Challenge. Prompt: adultConnor; Genre ~ H/C ~ Wesley ~ No Angel/Connor and no death
> 
> Author's notes ~ Thank you to Shannon and Boyd. Mistakes are all mine.


End file.
